


A Partridge in a Pear Tree

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Christmas, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff, Gift Giving, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), i'm SOFT, wrist kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Aziraphale begins receiving a series of gifts of unknown provenance and is forced to grapple with that age-old question: "How many birds does one man-shaped celestial being need?"Or, "The Twelve Days of Christmas", Gomens style.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 342
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	A Partridge in a Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katherine1753](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/gifts).



> Thank you to SillyGoose as always for the beta and thoughts <3.

Aziraphale padded downstairs from his flat to the bookshop in the early morning hours, still in his slippers and tartan robe and holding a steaming cup of cocoa. It was a Sunday morning, and outside, snow was falling, swathing London in a blanket of soft white as yet unblemished by foot traffic or automobile exhaust. A wonderful day to relax with a good book by the fire in the back room and, perhaps, in the evening invite a certain demon over to share a bottle of wine.

After careful deliberation at the bookshelves, he selected one of his Woolf first editions with a fond caress to the leather binding. Book and drink in hand, and plans for the day sorted, he began to make his way towards the back of the shop, when all of a sudden he noticed a tree blocking his way. Startled, he took a step backward, nearly spilling his cocoa all over his robe.

It was a small tree, potted in a large black planter, and upon closer inspection, Aziraphale realised there was a medium-sized bird perched on one of the bottom branches. It ruffled its plumage and stared at him with beady black eyes.

“Where on Earth did you come from?” he asked the bird, who did not answer. Instead, it cocked its head and nibbled a rotund green and red fruit hanging next to it, one of many, it appeared.

“Pears!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I like pears.”

He plucked one of them from the tree and sniffed at it; it smelled delicious, but knowing the consequences of biting into fruit of unknown provenance, Aziraphale realised he’d better not. He had no idea how the tree had come to be here in his shop, nor the bird, and until he figured it out, he would abstain, though the thought of leaving the perfectly ripe pears on the branch filled him with regret.

He couldn’t find a note to give any indication of its origin, but there didn’t seem to be anything sinister about the tree. Quite the opposite, in fact: it was suffused with a warm, homey feeling of love. It wasn’t exactly an appropriate addition to the bookshop, but when he tried to move it to a more suitable location, the bird darted out and pecked him round the ankles.

“Very well,” he said, stepping safely out of harm’s way and frowning at the bird. “I’ll leave you be for now, but don’t think you’re staying here forever. I simply do not have time for a pet.”

Later that evening, as he and Crowley sat by the fire over a bottle of red, Aziraphale mentioned the tree. “A most curious thing. Did you happen to see it as you came in?”

Crowley raised a lazy eyebrow from where he was sprawled on the couch. “Mmm? Oh yes, I did. Nice one.”

“Do you think the bird will need feeding? Other than the pears, I mean? And do you think I should water it?”

“The tree?”

“Yes, my dear. Please do keep up. You know I’m terrible at keeping plants alive—”

“I do. Yes, angel. I think you should water it and the bird, too. It’s a partridge, by the way.”

“A partridge, really? I had no idea you knew anything about fowl, Crowley.” Aziraphale bit his tongue and hesitated, trying to resist the temptation to give in to the pun he had set himself up for; he didn’t want to give Crowley the satisfaction.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and said, “I spent too much time leading the landed gentry astray in the eighteenth century.”

“I still have no idea where it could have come from. It’s terribly strange.”

“No idea at all?” Crowley rose a bit from his sprawl to refill his glass and give Aziraphale a top-up, which he gratefully accepted.

“None whatever.” Aziraphale let out a sigh. He wondered if the bird would appreciate brioche, like the more discerning ducks at the park. He had a few slices left from his last jaunt to Paris. He’d checked on it earlier that afternoon, and it seemed happy enough with the pears. But perhaps it would like some variety.

“Hmm,” Crowley said, rubbing his finger along the underside of his throat. It was a very distracting gesture, drawing attention to the fact that his fingers were very long and shapely, indeed. “Quite the mystery. Maybe one of your favourite customers had it delivered specially.”

“I don’t have any favourite customers.”

“True. Well, I suppose we’ll never know, then.” After that, he murmured something else under his breath and took a long, equally distracting sip of wine. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

Aziraphale frowned, startled by the revelation. “It’s Christmas?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You really haven’t noticed?”

“I knew it was the Christmas season, of course. Don’t be silly.”

“Holiday season.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s the preferred, more inclusive nomenclature these days, angel.”

Aziraphale waved his hand. “Oh yes, if you like. Anyway, it’s impossible to miss the mass of customers beating down my door during opening hours, searching for the perfect Christmas gift for the bibliophile in their lives.” He rolled his eyes.

“And you’re the only shop in Soho that’s limited, rather than extended, said hours.”

Aziraphale shifted in his chair. “Yes, well, I don’t want to encourage them, my dear.”

“Another bottle?” Crowley asked, though Aziraphale was sure he’d meant to say something else.  
  
“Indeed.”

***

Aziraphale had never been much of one for sleep. Being a Principality, he was expected to remain ever vigilant to thwart evil in all its forms. He had done the former, been a little lax in the latter, but since his split from the main office, he had begun to find sleeping a pleasant way to pass the time—in small doses of course. He would never, like Crowley, sleep away a century simply because he could. He’d miss too many pleasant meals, too many books, plays, and art exhibitions.

He’d miss Crowley.

Later that night as he readied himself for bed and climbed under the warm down covers, Aziraphale wished he were not alone.

It had become increasingly apparent, since the avoidance of Armageddon, that the love he had always felt for Crowley was not of the platonic variety. It was the sort of love that made him want to reach out and touch, to smell and taste. It was the sort of love that made it very difficult to separate at the end of the day, when all he really wanted was for Crowley to stay. Since he had never experienced this sort of desire before and had certainly never acted on it, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with his newfound self-awareness.

His member was hard and aching underneath his pyjama bottoms. It strained for touch, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the soft flannel and gripped himself, moaning softly at the delightful sensation. One thing he had been doing—very frequently—was this.

The following morning the sun was out, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. Aziraphale dressed warmly with the intention of taking a morning stroll to his favourite patisserie, but upon second thought, he went down through the bookshop to check on his feathered friend. He found the bird was not alone.

Two doves—Aziraphale was sure they were doves from the familiar markings on their wings, and really, you couldn’t walk three feet in Heaven without a dove fluttering around your head—sat cuddled together near the top of the pear tree. They were smaller and more delicate than the partridge, which had somewhat troublingly migrated from the tree to inhabit the space below Aziraphale’s desk, where it was creating a nest out of old scraps of paper. He wondered if he shouldn’t try to conjure up a cage for it, but these days he tried to keep the frivolous miracles to a minimum.

“Oh, good Lord,” he said, frowning at the birds. “Where in the world are you coming from?”

There was no draft, and a quick scan with his third eye told him no windows were open. Even stranger, the tree seemed to have grown overnight, and so had the pears, becoming even more luminous and hard to resist than they’d been the day before. Aziraphale glanced worriedly at the bookshelves behind the tree and wondered if he should vanish the tree entirely. Something, however, kept him from doing so: the feeling of love, which was even stronger than it had been the day before.

He met Crowley for lunch and relayed the new development.

“Two doves you say? What sort?” Crowley sipped at his black coffee from his leisurely, reclined position.

Aziraphale gave up perusing the dessert menu and squinted at him from under his reading glasses. “My dear boy, how am I to know? What does it matter?”

“Well, there’s rock doves—or your average pigeons—and then we have mourning doves, spotted doves, your Eurasian collared dove, and of course you have your turtle doves.” Crowley clinked his spoon against his coffee cup with a flourish. “Would have thought that, as a professional magician, you’d be a little more aware of the varieties out there.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, exasperated now. “The point is, what am I to do with them? They can’t live in the bookshop.”

“I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, you’re not one for pets, angel. Did you give them water? And food?”

“Yes, yes. They’re probably better fed than I am at this point.” Aziraphale glared around the room for their server, who seemed to have disappeared into the ether.

“Get rid of them, then. Just let them fly away.” Crowley flapped his hands.

“But what if . . .” Aziraphale felt his face colour slightly. “I did have a rather silly thought.”

Crowley leaned forward, a little smile playing on the side of his lips. “Do tell.” He did look handsome today with his hair rakishly styled and his lips pink from the cold.

“Well . . . I did think that perhaps . . . what if the Almighty . . . meant them as a peace offering?” He trailed off, feeling foolish, particularly as Crowley’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead to such a height, they nearly disappeared into his hairline. His expression of disbelief did more than a little to dampen Aziraphale’s previous enthusiasm for his pet theory. In no way could he mention the sweet feeling of love that permeated the gifts—Crowley would have an absolutely wonderful time with that bit of information. “All right, fine,” Aziraphale said with a grumble. “Perhaps it is a bit far-fetched. But say it is true. I can’t very well go disappearing an offering from the Almighty, now can I?”

“I suppose when you put it that way, you’d better keep them. Just in case, of course. Be sure to put down some newspaper if they’re as well fed as you say.”

“Oh, I’ve seen to it they can’t move about freely, of course. And any . . . mess they make is instantly vanished.”

“Clever. What were you saying about frivolous miracles?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and wriggled in his chair, still trying to catch a glimpse of the server. “I do wish the waiter would come back so I can order my crème brûlée. It’s simply wonderful here.”

“Anything you like, angel.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and before them on the table a perfectly round white dish appeared. The caramelized sugar was browned to a beautiful sheen, and the smell of vanilla bean and bourbon filled the air.

“Oh, thank you.” He gave Crowley a warm smile that he hoped conveyed his gratitude in an appropriate manner.

“Nothing to it,” said Crowley, settling back again with his coffee. “Nothing to it at all.”

***

On the third day, Aziraphale recognized that things were getting slightly out of hand.

The partridge and the doves had three new companions, who were a bit more mobile than the other birds; they were chickens, of a sort—red ones with ruffled feathers and ravenous appetites. They seemed perfectly content to peck up all of the food Aziraphale set down for them on the floor, eating the poor doves and pheasant—or partridge, what have you—out of house and home. Worse still, Crowley wasn’t on hand to hear his complaints. He’d said he had an ‘appointment’ out of town but wouldn’t give Aziraphale any of the details. Only that he’d be away for a few days doing something extremely important.

Aziraphale hoped he wasn’t getting into trouble. He knew the demon suffered from boredom at times, now that he wasn’t actively tempting on a regular basis. Of course, Aziraphale didn’t think he was falling back into those habits, but it was a distressing thought all the same.

It was, Aziraphale realised, the first time Crowley had not been available to him since the day after they’d chosen their own side. The first time they’d been apart in months. He didn’t like it very much, but he supposed he couldn’t begrudge him time to do private errands.

“Lord,” he said, raising his head to the sky. “Is this a test? Must I prove myself worthy through these trials, like Job?”

The Lord didn’t answer.

On the fourth day since the appearance of the first gift, if gift it could be called, four tiny yellow songbirds appeared in the pear tree, vying for territory with the doves. Their singing was pleasant enough, though Aziraphale far preferred sitting on a park bench for his bird watching excursions. Unfortunately, the tree itself had gotten even bigger, spreading up almost toward the ceiling. At least the chickens seemed more content and had settled down to nest under the pear tree. Aziraphale supposed it was a valid excuse to keep the bookshop closed, and so he retreated to the back room and spent the day going over his accounts, reading, nibbling biscuits, and trying not to wonder over Crowley’s absence. It seemed very unlike him to leave Aziraphale in such a predicament, all alone.

The following day was a Saturday, the day that he and Crowley usually went to a museum and then had afternoon tea, and he had very much been looking forward to the latest display of seventeenth century costume jewellery at the V&A. However, the thought of going alone didn’t appeal. It took him three cups of fortifying tea and one call to Crowley, just to ensure he was still out of town (he was), before he finally braved the stairs to face whatever awaited below.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting in the bookshop, but his whole body flooded with relief when there were no more additional birds to be found. Instead, he noticed something shimmering on the tips of the pear tree’s branches; upon closer inspection, the items in question turned out to be rings. Five golden rings, to be exact. He selected one at random and held it up to examine it; it was plain, save for a subtle feather design etched into the metal. Whether that was supposed to be a reference to himself being an angel or the birds, he had no idea.

They were pretty rings, all the same, and they were almost pulsing with a sweet, aching feeling of love. He figured it couldn’t hurt to try them on and was amazed and delighted that each one seemed custom-made to fit one of his fingers. He wriggled his hand, admiring them, but had to admit to himself that wearing five identical rings seemed a bit gauche. So he removed four, keeping them safely in a locked drawer in his desk, so that only the one on his left ring finger remained. He did rather like the look of it. Perhaps his luck was turning.

Perhaps not. On the following day, six geese, honking and squawking loudly and generally making a nuisance of themselves, greeted him at the base of the stairs.

“How many birds does one person need?” Aziraphale said to himself, ensuring the newly arrived fowl were safely corralled behind the wards he’d created in the far corner of the bookshop. He had to draw a line somewhere, and large water birds were apparently his hard limit.

On the next day, Aziraphale wondered if he should even get out of bed. There was something making a racket downstairs, something that sounded suspiciously like—

Seven swans.

“I’ve been cursed,” he said, staring forlornly at the downy feathers raining upon him. The swans, huge and beautiful, gazed balefully, and the bookshop was now such racket of honking, twittering, cooing and clucking, Aziraphale could hardly even think. Deciding he’d quite had it, he miracled the lot of them to St James’s Park, where he was sure they’d be happy enough, what with the free-flowing breadcrumbs from tourists, foreign dignitaries, and spies alike. The tree, which had grown substantially, he was less sure about. It was quite lovely, but it threatened the structural integrity of the roof of the bookshop and, thus, had to go. He chose a quiet spot on Hampstead Heath where it could flourish without interference. Certainly the Almighty would forgive him for dispersing Her gifts so thoughtfully. Surely, She wouldn’t hold their removal against him, knowing how chaotic the bookshop had become. He did, however, keep the rings.

That evening, Aziraphale decided to pay Crowley a visit, knowing he was due back in town. It had been an awfully long few days.

As he took the lift up to the penthouse floor, Aziraphale wondered if he’d done something to upset Crowley. Their last lunch had been pleasant as always. He wasn’t sure why his phone calls had not been returned, particularly as they became increasingly plaintive.

After a trepidatious knock, he listened carefully for footsteps on the other side of the door. “Crowley?” he called. “It’s me. My dear, please open up.” A few more moments passed, and then he finally heard the familiar tread getting closer, somewhat unsteadily.

“Ah, angel. Happy New Year,” Crowley said as he opened the door, draping against the frame of it. His breath reeked of alcohol, and he was holding an opened bottle of wine. “Care for a drink?” He waved it and the contents sloshed dangerously. Aziraphale’s eyes were immediately drawn down to the exposed skin at Crowley’s throat, and lower. His shirt was unbuttoned to the chest, and from the way he was standing, or lounging, Aziraphale could see the hint of a dusky pink nipple.

“Oh, it’s the New Year. How silly of me to have forgotten.” He’d seen plenty revellers in the streets, but he’d been so preoccupied with the birds and then his visit to Crowley’s he hadn’t bothered to consider why. “My dear, I came to see if you were all right.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, clasping his hands together so that he wouldn’t do something foolish, like reach out. Crowley gave him a crooked smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You haven’t returned my calls.”

“I’ve been drinking,” Crowley said, sloshing his bottle again and tipping it back against his lips. A small trickle escaped his lips and dripped down Crowley’s chin, and he darted out his extremely long tongue to chase it.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, I can see that. Why have you been drinking?”

“How’s the men—menash—menag—erie?” The flat was terribly dark, and Aziraphale nearly tripped over a discarded snakeskin boot as Crowley led him through the vestibule, past the kitchen and the rooms full of plants, down the hall toward the only room that, Aziraphale knew from the brief time he’d occupied Crowley’s body, was in any way comfortable by his own standards: the master bedroom.

He stood on the threshold, watching as Crowley flopped down on his unmade bed, creating ripples in the black satin sheets. The very large flat-screen television was on and tuned to the BBC, where a pink-cheeked and very enthusiastic reporter was on the ground somewhere in London interviewing people about their New Year’s resolutions. _I think I’m going to try to exercise more and stop spending so much money on clothes._ Crowley rolled over, somehow managing not to spill the entire contents of the bottle, and offered it up to Aziraphale. “Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Aziraphale bit back his automatic response, honed by millennia of self-denial, and instead perched somewhat awkwardly on the corner of the bed, which dipped under his weight, and accepted the bottle. The cold champagne fizzed and popped on his tongue, and as he passed it back to Crowley, he realised that Crowley had taken off his glasses, and that he was the object of a very intent gaze.

“You didn’t bring any of your little bird friends?”

“I miracled them away.” Aziraphale worried the ring on his left hand. “To the park, of course. Gift from the Almighty or not, there is only so much a person can endure.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Crowley, taking an incredibly long swig of champagne and passing the bottle back to Aziraphale. He took a small, obliging sip, and tried to decipher the edge he detected in Crowley’s tone. Meanwhile, Crowley splayed out on the bed like a starfish and stared up at the ceiling. The bed was really very large, perfect for two. With a twinge in his chest, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had ever had anyone here with him.

 _This is the year I finally tell my best friend I’m in love with him_ , said one of the women being interviewed on the television. Aziraphale felt the statement like a shock, his whole body flushing—he was glad for the darkness in Crowley’s bedroom. He stared as the interview continued. Things were very confusing this evening. He was suddenly intensely aware of how alone they were in such an intimate space. This was the place where Crowley slept, where he dreamed, where he might . . . do what Aziraphale had been doing to himself on a distressingly regular basis. Had Crowley invited him in here for a reason? Was it possible this was an overture of a sexual nature?

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. He was unpractised in such matters, but that didn’t mean he was entirely ignorant. There was, after all, something between them, something that felt like lightning or electricity whenever they sat close, as they were now. He knew that Crowley cared for him. Perhaps . . .

He took a deep breath and turned back to Crowley, the anticipation building, only to feel a crushing sense of disappointment. Crowley was fast asleep, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, and Aziraphale gave his sleeping form a rueful smile and tucked a blanket around him before taking himself home.

***

If Aziraphale thought the birds were bad, he was mistaken. The next day, upon letting himself out the front door of the bookshop for his morning walk, he was impeded by not one, not two, not three, but eight large bovines being milked by eight young women who all smiled up at him and offered him “good morning.” They were blocking the sidewalk and most of the road, but a nearby policeman seemed to be directing traffic as though this were a normal sight for the middle of SoHo.

“What is the meaning of this?” Aziraphale demanded.

One of the women gave him a sly look. “We’re the eight maids a-milking,” she said. “Obviously.”

“Yes, I can see that, dear girl. But do you have a permit? What in the world are you doing here?”

She exchanged a glance with another of the women, who shook her head and put a finger to her lips. “We’re not supposed to say.”

Aziraphale huffed and stalked off, but not before nearly being kicked by one of the cows. The smell of manure permeated the crisp air, and the cattle’s lowing drowned out the usual sound of London traffic. Even though the sense of love was still there, Aziraphale was having a hard time taking pleasure in it. However much he did like cheese, he’d never really been a fan of cows. On the other hand, this would keep customers away from his shop, so perhaps he’d reserve judgement for a little while longer.

But then things got worse.

On the following morning when Aziraphale dared to peek out of his window there were nine women dancing around between the cows and the maids. With a resigned sigh, he went out to speak to them.

“Good morning,” said one of the ladies, dressed in a long flowing gown with flowers in her hair, who barely stopped moving even as Aziraphale tried to address her.

“I say,” Aziraphale said, quite helplessly. “Whatever are you dancing around in front of my shop for? Where did you come from?”

The lady only raised her eyebrows and continued twirling.

“They must be filming a milk commercial or something,” said a man passing by, cradling his mobile phone to his ear as he dodged cows and women. “It’s madness out here.”

Aziraphale didn’t dare miracle the people away, not knowing where he might send them. He still felt bad about the army officer at the Tadfield Air Base.

He met Crowley later that day for lunch at a new sushi place he’d been dying to try, but he found he took little pleasure in his food.

“How’re things at the shop?” Crowley asked, a note of something in his tone Aziraphale couldn’t quite decipher.

Aziraphale looked up from his plate of fish and shook his head. “Oh, you just wouldn’t believe! There hasn’t been this much chaos since that nasty business with Noah, my dear. I’m half-certain the Apocalypse is beginning again.”

“Being a little dramatic, aren’t you, angel?”

“You haven’t seen them, Crowley! The cows! They’re huge. And the dancers—I get quite dizzy simply watching them.”

Crowley placed his chopsticks down on his plate and took a sip of sake. “Still think _She_ has a hand in it?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Aziraphale muttered darkly. However, having vented to Crowley, he was starting to feel a bit peckish and selected a choice bit of salmon sashimi to taste.

“Good?” Crowley asked, eyebrow arching as he watched.

“Delicious.”

Aziraphale decided to look on the bright side of things. Unlike the birds, the humans did at least leave in the evening, only to return the following morning. On the tenth day since the fiasco began, ten men dressed up like seventeenth century dandies joined the fray to cavort around with the dancing ladies. One of them, the odd man out, offered Aziraphale his arm as he left the shop that morning. It was sorely tempting—it had been many years since Aziraphale had danced the gavotte, and he did enjoy it so. However, he declined politely; as handsome as the man was with his dark curls and welcoming smile, it didn’t feel quite right to enjoy frivolity when he hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the strange occurrences around his shop.

The next two days, however, found Aziraphale at his breaking point. While he’d gotten no closer to solving his mystery, pipers, eleven to be exact, and drummers twelve appeared along with the dancers and the milkmaids, and it was nearly impossible to concentrate on reading or his accounts. The music seemed to drive everyone into a frenzy: the dancers twirled and leaped with renewed vigour. 

“I’ve been damned,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. By now, a crowd of humans had gathered, tourists and locals alike, and were taking photos, which the musicians, maids, men and milking ladies were only too pleased to pose for. The cows, however, didn’t appear to like the publicity. They were even more flatulent than they’d been the first day, probably due to eating detritus from the London sidewalk.

Finally, Aziraphale’s phone rang. He could barely hear over the din outside, but it was Crowley’s voice. A sweet sensation of relief flooded Aziraphale; Crowley would surely know what to do. “Meet me at the first rendezvous point,” Aziraphale yelled, hoping his instructions were clear. “I need to speak with you.”

One hour later, Aziraphale huffed and puffed as he hurried toward their bench, grateful Crowley had already arrived. He was watching the ducks, swans, and geese, several of which looked distressingly familiar. A pair of doves perched on a branch above Crowley’s head, and Aziraphale was almost certain they were the ones from the shop. Not the worst of the lot, comparatively.

“You would never believe what’s happened,” Aziraphale said, sitting heavily next to him. Crowley looked over from his customary sprawl and raised an eyebrow.

“Penguins? Albatross? Let me guess—flamingos?”

“No, my dear—if only. You should see the state of the street outside the bookshop. It’s sheer pandemonium.”

As Aziraphale described the scene, Crowley watched him from behind his dark-lensed glasses. Aziraphale could only vaguely see the outline of his eyes. He wished they were somewhere more private, so Crowley would feel comfortable showing himself. Sometimes he was very sorry that Crowley felt the need to cover himself up; his eyes were really very pretty. They had been pretty the other night at Crowley’s flat, when Aziraphale had thought about kissing him.

By this time, he had quite lost track of what he was complaining about and sat back, a bit confused.

Crowley heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You really have no idea what this is about?”

“No idea at all. Why, should I?” Aziraphale asked as a strange thought occurred to him for the first time.

“I could have sworn it was one of your lot’s,” Crowley said, slouching lower on the bench.

“My lot’s what? Crowley, what in the world are you getting at?”

“The song. The bloody song, angel. I thought you were just being obtuse.”

Aziraphale knew that he could be deliberately ignorant. It had been brought to his attention most recently and emphatically during the almost-Apocalypse, when he had refused to believe that Heaven not only wanted, but actively sought, the war to end the world. Crowley had been more forgiving than any angel from the head office when they’d reconciled, as though he had known all along that Aziraphale simply needed time to accept the truth on his own.

Aziraphale was experiencing a similar revelation now. “ _You’ve_ done this?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Crowley said, but he did not offer any explanation other than a sardonic eyebrow raise.

“But why?” Aziraphale sputtered.

“Oh, angel, you’re going to be the death of me. Must’ve been the humans after all.” Crowley groaned and flung both his arms out. “I need to get drunk again.”

“I’m sorry, have I missed something? What song?”

“How is it that you’ve lived six millennia without hearing ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, angel?”

“Well, you know that Christmas isn’t big upstairs, Crowley. It’s a little too on the nose, even for Heaven.”

Crowley groaned again. “All of those Christmases here on Earth? It’s in all of the shops, on the radio, on the telly—it’s in the bloody ether for Sssomeone’s sake. I thought for sure you’d get it. Now I just feel like a knob.”

Aziraphale wished he were drunk as well. He was going to need to get a bit drunk to deal with the fact that Crowley had turned the bookshop into an aviary on purpose, and the street outside the bookshop to a Renaissance faire. “I still don’t understand why you would have thought I wanted all of those birds. And you should hear the drummers, my dear. It’s enough to drive a person mad. Though the cow manure is driving patrons away from the shop, and for that, I suppose I should be grateful.”

“They were a fucking bother to find, if you must you know. Had to go all the way to Warwickshire.” Crowley was mumbling to himself now more than talking to Aziraphale. “Not to mention all the rest. Bloody pipers, you wouldn’t believe what they’re charging me.”

“My dear, I worry you’ve quite lost your mind.”

“I lost it a long time ago, angel,” Crowley said with a resigned sigh. Then, he straightened up suddenly and shouted at a couple walking by: two men, no more than thirty, both wearing matching red scarves. “Oi, you two, come here and prove something to my friend. Do you know the lyrics to ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’?”

They looked at him askance, and then at each other. Shrugging, they approached cautiously and stood a few feet away. One of the men, shorter and stouter than the other, turned to Crowley. “You want us to . . . sing it?”

“Sing it, say it, whatever. I’ve got a bet here with my angel that everyone knows the lyrics.”

“Er. All right.” The stouter man nudged his partner with his elbow. “You start. You’re more of a singer than me.”

The tall, blond man cleared his throat. “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree!”

Then the second joined in. “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree!”

It went on. Aziraphale sat with his mouth open as the two men recounted all of the ‘gifts’ he had been given over the last twelve days, but what was most astonishing to him was the first part of the lyric. The part about love.

“All right now, bugger off,” Crowley said when they were finished. And then, seeming to remember himself, “Ah, thanks.”

The men looked put out, but went on their way, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley at peace on their bench once again. Crowley was most assuredly not looking at him. In fact, he seemed to be making every effort not to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“See? Told you everyone knows the dumb song. Worse than anything from _The Sound of Music_ ,” Crowley finally said. “Now, you want to go get lunch? I’ll just send the whole lot back to where I found them; you needn’t worry about a thing. Nothing to it at all.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, warmth swelling in his chest. The love he had felt emanating from the gifts, even at their most annoying, was starting to make sense. “Oh, Crowley.”

“What?” Crowley sounded cautious.

“I think I understand what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

“You do?”

“Thank you for the . . . ah, gifts, Crowley. I did very much like the rings.” He held up his left hand, where the golden band glinted on his ring finger. Crowley inhaled sharply, his posture going rigid, and Aziraphale moved closer to him on the bench. He seemed to be staring at the ring, which, come to think of it, looked quite like a wedding band. Aziraphale extended his hand and gently placed it on Crowley’s knee, and he could feel the demon trembling. Aziraphale had the overwhelming desire to kiss him. He had never kissed anyone, however, and wasn’t entirely sure how to start.

“Don’t know why I can’t just sssay it,” Crowley said, so softly Aziraphale could barely hear him. He felt something welling up in his throat, and all of the years of emotion he had kept pent up inside threatened to overrun, to spill out of his mouth and the consequences be damned. He was beginning to think he had been very wrong to keep his feelings to himself.

“It’s all right, my love,” he said, holding his breath as he watched Crowley react to the word.

Crowley moved his hand to cover Aziraphale’s, his pointer finger tracing the ring. The contact—the first intentional caress they’d ever shared—sent electric currents zipping up Aziraphale’s spine. He felt slightly faint. 

“I wanted. I didn’t . . . you’re . . . Is it true that—?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said. “Do you feel the same?”

Crowley’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “ Yesss.”

There was a moment where they just looked at one another. Aziraphale could feel the seconds stretching, both of them waiting to see what the other would do. Finally, Aziraphale reached out with his free hand and brushed back a strand of hair from Crowley’s forehead. His skin was warm to the touch, and it made Aziraphale shiver, his fingertips lighting up with the need to keep up the contact. He had never touched Crowley in tenderness before—not in the six thousand years they had been together on Earth.

Crowley’s lips parted. “Angel,” he said. “Did you ever want to . . . for the longest time I’ve . . .” Crowley captured Aziraphale’s hand and brought it to his lips. There, he pressed kisses to each of his fingertips, and the inconceivably soft sensation was like nothing Aziraphale had ever known. Then he did it again, this time kissing Aziraphale’s knuckles. He spread Aziraphale’s fingers and examined his palm, tracing it gently with his own fingers, and then he brought the delicate skin of Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth. Aziraphale watched raptly as Crowley closed his eyes and breathed, inhaling his scent like he couldn’t get enough of it. He kissed Aziraphale’s wrist, right on the pulse fluttering underneath his skin, and opened his mouth, touching the vein with his tongue. Aziraphale felt the point of connection from his hand to the tips of his wings, which fluttered safely in the ether, out of human sight.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered. “Shall we go somewhere a bit more private? Please, not the bookshop.” He shuddered, thinking about the racket he’d endured for the past week, without Crowley by his side.

“Come back to mine?” Crowley asked.

“Please.”

To say they hurried to Crowley’s flat was a substantial understatement. The Bentley had never been driven so fast through the streets of London.

Luckily, for all that it lacked in decorative taste, Crowley’s flat was blessedly quiet. Aziraphale didn’t want anything to distract them from what must happen next. He took Crowley’s hand and allowed himself to be led down the long corridor towards the bedroom, where only a few days before he’d left Crowley asleep. They stood on the threshold for only a moment, and then Crowley was embracing him, walking them back toward the bed. Sometime during their arrival at the flat, he’d removed his glasses, and his golden eyes were warm and intent on Aziraphale’s face.

“Could I kiss you?” Aziraphale whispered as they moved onto the soft black sheets.

Crowley’s pupils darkened. “Yesss,” he hissed, and then he was reaching up to bring Aziraphale closer. Aziraphale went blindly with the weight of centuries on his shoulders. He sought Crowley’s lips, and they both made incredulous noises as they connected. It was softer than Aziraphale imagined it would be; Crowley was softer. In the moments he had allowed himself to fantasize about this, Crowley was always the aggressor, pushing him up against a wall or down onto a bed, owning him, claiming him. Maybe it was because it was the only way he could justify his feelings to himself, before. It felt, now, quite the other way indeed. Aziraphale opened his mouth on instinct, wanting to increase the connection, and he slipped his tongue against Crowley’s, tasting coffee and the faint trace of something smoky, like a peat-heavy whiskey, but more likely the essence of Crowley himself. Crowley’s fingers wound into his hair and rubbed gently at his scalp, urging him to continue, and all the breath left his body on an exhale.

They held onto each other, and soon Aziraphale found himself straddling Crowley’s hips, his effort straining against his trousers. He could feel the answering hardness beneath him, and a little thrill ran up his spine at the thought Crowley was aroused because of him. It really was very lovely, how well they fit together. Crowley kissed with his whole self, twining around him with arms and legs and nimble fingers.

“Angel, angel, angel,” Crowley said between kisses, which had become quite needy. Aziraphale realised he was grinding down onto Crowley, that he had begun to ache and strain in a most needful way. His effort felt like it must be touched. He wanted something firm to grip around it, wanted to thrust it into a warm, tight heat. 

He gasped when he felt Crowley’s hands descend to clutch at his rear and urge him to keep moving. He rubbed himself against Crowley, the feeling in his body becoming more and more urgent. It was hot, too hot with so many layers. Without even thinking about it, Aziraphale vanished his clothing, and Crowley laughed, nipping at the skin of his neck. “Bloody hell, angel. I never thought you’d be so eager.”

In spite of himself, Aziraphale blushed. “I find . . . I . . . oh, I want you to touch me, dear, please. I’m aching for you.”

Crowley’s fingers dipped into his crease, and Aziraphale shuddered, arching back. He wanted . . . he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted to fill and be filled, wanted to do something to relieve the desperate pulsing between his legs.

“I’ve never done this,” Crowley said, the admittance issued in a whisper against Aziraphale’s ear. He groaned as Aziraphale circled his hips, and his fingertips circled around Aziraphale’s tight opening. It was quickly becoming plain to Aziraphale what they must do.

“Your trousers, my dear. Please.”

What had begun soft and slow was now decidedly not. Later, there would be time for gentle exploration, but Aziraphale was on fire, filled with a craving to have Crowley deep inside of him.

Crowley bit his bottom lip with teeth that looked suddenly sharper, and then it was all warm, supple skin on skin, no clothing between them anymore. Aziraphale looked down at the beloved face. He looked between their human bodies and gasped at the sight of their hard lengths pressing against each other, Crowley’s lean and long, his own thick and short. He was leaking at the tip, and every thrust smeared that wetness on Crowley’s abdomen. Oh, how he ached!

“Put yourself inside me,” he said. “Oh, Crowley, I don’t think I can wait anymore.”

“Fuck, angel, you can’t just say stuff like that,” Crowley gasped. His eyes were wide and filled with lust and tenderness.

Aziraphale smiled down at him and took matters into his own hands. Or, well, he took Crowley into his hands, rubbing the hot length of him until more slickness came out, and then, for good measure, he made himself wet with merely a thought. It probably wasn’t a particularly good use of angelic miracles, but then again, Aziraphale wasn’t a particularly good angel, and he was beyond caring.

He arched his back as Crowley began to breach him, the hardness of his length pressing inside inch by solid inch.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Aziraphale cried out as he seated himself. He felt so very full, stretched taut where they joined. He looked down into Crowley’s beloved face and watched his reaction—the reaction of his true love being inside him for the first time. Crowley’s eyes were locked onto him, his hands gripping Aziraphale’s hips tightly.

“How does it feel?” Crowley asked, sounding incredibly strained.

“My dear, it’s simply wonderful. You feel so good. So—deep.” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley lifted his hips and sealed them even more thoroughly together. “How about you?”

“Fuck. Like . . . nothing I could have imagined. And I have imagined.”

That pleased Aziraphale immensely, and he started to move himself on Crowley’s prick, thighs straining as he rose on and off, on and off. The slide and friction began to build. Crowley allowed him to lead, but his fingertips were tight on his hips as though he was afraid if he let go, Aziraphale would escape.

“I’m quite . . . impaled, my dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice going funny as something inside of him was rubbed and massaged, a spot that made white flares of delight erupt on the backs of his eyelids. He ground down, wanting that feeling again, and Crowley was making desperate panting sounds as Aziraphale clenched around him and chased his pleasure.

Crowley was muttering to himself various obscenities: “Ride me, ride me, ride me, fuck, like that, oh, my angel.”

It was becoming evident that Crowley was close to his peak. Aziraphale’s own prick ached as it bounced, slapping against Crowley’s flat stomach, but before he could reach out to take it in hand, Crowley batted him away and started to stroke him in time with their joining. His hips were working now too, jostling Aziraphale up and down and, really, it was all too perfect. Aziraphale could hardly believe he’d denied himself this intimacy for so many years; he had a feeling that since they’d started, it would be very difficult to stop.

Aziraphale tossed his head back. The pleasure built deep in his groin, radiating through his thighs and stomach, all of his nerves firing together. What a gift they had been given, to inhabit these bodies. What a gift they had been given, to be placed here on this wonderful Earth together.

“Angel,” Crowley said, urgency in his voice. “Please. I wanna see you . . .” His hand jerked faster, and Aziraphale worked his hips, and then he cried out, spurting his release all over Crowley’s belly and chest. He stilled as the feeling washed over him, and Crowley let out an inhuman noise, closer to a hiss than a moan, and thrust up into him feverishly as his own need overcame him.

Aziraphale collapsed onto Crowley, the mess he’d made sticky and slick between them, and felt Crowley still pulsing deep inside. It seemed to go on for quite some time, and Aziraphale held him and stroked his hair as Crowley shuddered with aftershocks. He was deliciously sensitive, and he nuzzled against the side of Crowley’s face, breathing him in. Crowley held him with strong, gentle arms, running his hands up and down the expanse of Aziraphale’s back. He didn’t seem to be in any rush to part, which was fine with Aziraphale.

“This isn’t how I expected today to go,” Crowley said, licking his lips and putting one hand behind his head. He had a particularly self-satisfied look on his face, similar to the one he usually wore after performing a complicated temptation. “But I’m not complaining.”

“You’d better not be,” Aziraphale said, shifting a little as Crowley finally softened and slipped out. And none too soon—his thighs were beginning to cramp. “Not after the week I’ve had.”

“You liked the rings, though.” Crowley arched an eyebrow.

Aziraphale held up his hand, where the delicate gold ring glinted in the low bedroom light. “I did.”

“Should probably go back to the shop and make sure all the mess has been cleaned up.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, the gentle touch of Crowley’s hands on his body heating his skin. “Yes. Let’s go back to the bookshop and check everything is back to normal.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale thought he saw a trace of disappointment shade those beloved features.

“And then let’s open a bottle of red. Or two.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, arching an eyebrow ever so slightly.

“And then . . .” Aziraphale trailed off, lost in the warmth of Crowley’s gaze, the sizzling heat of his touch.

“Yes?”

“And then . . . I’ll show you to my bedroom.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, capturing Aziraphale’s lower lip with his teeth and giving him a proprietary squeeze.

“And then . . .”

“And then,” Crowley concurred, pulling Aziraphale toward him, into the heat of his embrace.

“We’ll be alone, my true love,” Aziraphale whispered, and he let his wings unfurl.

**Author's Note:**

> Katherine1753, I took your simplest prompt (love confessions) + fluff + smut and this came out. I hope you enjoy and have a lovely, birdless (unless you like birds, and in that case, bird-filled) holiday season!


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